<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Learning to Be Happy by enthusio</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28667025">Learning to Be Happy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthusio/pseuds/enthusio'>enthusio</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Coming of Age: AUs of the AU [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, F/M, Fertility Issues, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Miscarriage, Polyamory, Stillbirth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:47:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,959</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28667025</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthusio/pseuds/enthusio</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlotte had given up hoping for a happy life with Fleamont when she was fifteen.  She never would have imagined that going back to him over a decade later would result in exactly that.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Euphemia Potter/Fleamont Potter, Fleamont Potter/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Coming of Age: AUs of the AU [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100888</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Learning to Be Happy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Quick sketch of the kind of family James might have grown up in if Charlotte had gone back to Linfred.  It started as background for a Life That Could Have Been chapter I'm considering, then got out of hand.  Warnings for referenced underage sex and consent issues similar to the main story, as well as quite a bit of discussion of miscarriage and stillbirth.</p><p>Just for a sense of timeline, James was born quite late even by magical standards so this spans roughly 30 years.  Lucy would have been 11 circa the mid-late 1920s.  The assumptions about muggle social standards have been adjusted accordingly.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was <em>that woman</em> that decided her, in the end.  That woman and her wand, twirling in her fingers as she cheerfully explained to Charlotte that Lucy would be attending the local magical school whether Charlotte liked it or not.  There wasn’t a hint of apology in her tone as she all but dismissed Charlotte’s place as a mother.</p><p>Oh, Lucy would be allowed to live at home if Charlotte ‘agreed’.  It wasn’t boarding, not like Hogwarts.  ‘Muggleborn’ children lived with their parents and had their magic carefully monitored.  That not ‘agreeing’ meant having the memory of ever having had a child ripped from her was kept as only the quietest of threats.</p><p>That didn’t change the fact that Charlotte had heard it.  She’d forced herself to smile as she led the woman to the door.  There were other options.  Maybe not for most families, but for them…Charlotte would do anything to keep her daughter away from people like <em>that</em>.</p><p>Which was how she came to be sitting in an Abraxan carriage, looking out the window for a glimpse of the castle she hadn’t seen in eleven years.  The village wasn’t likely to be as welcoming once everyone discovered why she’d run away, but Linfred had been her home as well.  She had grown up there almost as much as Fleamont had.</p><p>“See that?” she said to Lucy, pointing out one of the towers just visible in the distance. “That’s the heir wing.  You’ll have a whole suite of rooms there, even bigger than our old flat.”</p><p>“Will I really?  Even though you and Daddy aren’t married?”</p><p>Charlotte couldn’t help but smile at the name Fleamont had signed all of his letters to Lucy as.  She had expected ‘Father’, as Fleamont called His Grace.  Perhaps ‘Dad’ since Lucy had declared herself far too old for a ‘Mummy’ when she was seven.  But ‘Daddy’ Fleamont had signed and ‘Daddy’ he had become.  Charlotte had given up reminding herself that it likely had more to do with Fleamont feeling as though he’d missed out than the conversations they’d had as children where she’d insisted that Mother and Father were far too formal.</p><p>“Even though we aren’t married,” she promised.  </p><p>That she was absolutely certain of.  Fleamont and Euphemia both had begged details of Lucy’s favourite colours and interests the moment Charlotte had written to ask about moving back to England.  There would be a suite waiting only for her to arrive and see which of the elves’ magic she matched best.  Likely a selection of horses and Abraxans for her to choose from as well.</p><p>No, Charlotte was not the least bit concerned about Lucy.  She was a Potter.  In magic only, perhaps, but a Potter.  The family and castle would welcome her as they did all Potters.</p><p>Charlotte fussed as the carriage began descending.  There hadn’t been a way to buy proper robes in Canada, at least not any way that Charlotte was willing to risk.  She’d nearly had her daughter taken from her twice already.  The dress in a shade just a touch brighter than Potter red would have to do.</p><p>“Straighten your bow, dear,” Charlotte said.  She reached over to do it herself before Lucy could complain.  A hat would have been easier, but finding one suitable for a young girl in the right shade of gold had proved difficult. </p><p>The bow also drew attention to Lucy’s mane of incorrigible Potter locks, though Charlotte didn’t think of that until the carriage landed.  She watched as Fleamont’s face lit up at the sight of their daughter.  As he carefully bent to be closer to her height—tall for her age, but still no match for a fully grown wizard—and kissed the back of the hand she’d held out the way Charlotte had taught her.</p><p>Charlotte herself went immediately to His Grace, dipping into a low curtsy the way <em>she</em> had been taught by her governess.</p><p>“None of that,” His Grace said quietly.  His hand hovered near her elbow until she rose, then under her chin until she looked up at him.  </p><p>It had always been that way.  A hand near her, never quite touching.  Only a hint of extra warmth showing what was expected of her.  The only times His Grace had ever touched her were when it had been necessary for her to learn.</p><p>She pushed away the memory of how large and foreign he had felt when she had been only a little older than Lucy.  How different from Fleamont’s sweet fumblings as he explored every inch of her.</p><p>She was no longer a girl barely on the cusp of growing up.  She was a woman now, with a daughter of her own, and she could meet a man’s eyes without flinching away.</p><p>His Grace’s eyes didn’t rove over her the way she half expected them to.  The way men’s often did, even after she’d managed to find her way into a perfectly respectable job as a typist.  Instead he smiled at her, his brown eyes dancing with a hint of fire the way Fleamont’s did.</p><p>“I believe you and I ought to begin again,” he said, “if you are willing.  I can make myself scarce if you find it easier.  The family and heir wings aren’t so near each other that it would be a problem.”</p><p>There was a moment where Charlotte nearly refused.  There was no starting over with His Grace.  Not in the way he seemed to think, a way where Charlotte would forget every memory of his hands and mouth on her most private places.  She could hardly look at him without remembering how confused she’d been the first time she’d felt what it was like to lose control of herself in that way.</p><p>Then she saw Lucy out of the corner of her eye.  Giggling as she held a fluffy creature that looked impossibly familiar.  It wasn’t the first time Charlotte had done something painful for the sake of her daughter and she doubted it would be the last.</p><p>Euphemia appeared at Charlotte’s side the moment she’d inclined her head.  The best she could do, under the circumstances, but it did seem to ease a tension in His Grace’s shoulders.</p><p>“Why don’t we let the men introduce Lucy to the Potter magic,” Euphemia said. “I thought I might show you the rooms we’ve readied for you.  We weren’t quite sure what you might like, so there are several for you to choose from.”</p><p>Once again, Charlotte could only nod.  She did her best to take in the castle as she was led away.  It was larger than she remembered, but then, she’d only ever been allowed in one very small part of it.</p><p>Still, she was certain she would never forget the heir wing.  She stilled as they came upon the archway glowing with red sigils that marked its entrance.  It was an archway she’d only seen once, the first time she was brought to the castle, but it had been seared into her memory.  She ran her fingers along one of the symbols.  For protection, she thought.  Fleamont had taught her a little about them when he’d been in school, but it had been so long ago.</p><p>“We don’t have to go in if you are uncomfortable.”</p><p>Euphemia’s voice was quiet, but Charlotte still jumped slightly as she turned to find the witch watching her with her hands clasped carefully at her waist.</p><p>“I thought—” Euphemia faltered for a moment before seeming to gather herself. “If I had a daughter, I would want to be near her, but if the memories are too much—”</p><p>“No.  It’s not—”  Charlotte shook her head as she stepped away from the arch.  Only Fleamont had ever joined her in this wing.  Her lessons had been in His Grace’s private rooms. “I only assumed you would rather I stay in the village or on the grounds.”</p><p>Or at least in another wing.  Not in the heir wing.  Not with Fleamont now married and likely beginning to raise his own family there in a year or two.</p><p>Euphemia crossed the distance between them in two quick steps, clasping Charlotte’s hands in her own. “Why would I want that?  You are Lucy’s mother, of course you must stay with us.  In an adjoining wing if you are uncomfortable with the heir wing, but you can’t imagine that I would try to keep you so far from your own daughter.”</p><p>“Not from Lucy,” Charlotte acknowledged, “from Fleamont.”</p><p>“Fleamont?”  Euphemia frowned just slightly, studying Charlotte as though she didn’t quite catch her meaning.  Her face cleared after a moment, before breaking into a wide smile. “<em>Wizards</em>,” she huffed. “You were never given a witch’s education, were you?  And of course neither of those two silly men thought to mention it.”  She shook her head fondly as she dropped Charlotte’s hands in favour of linking their arms together. “Don’t you worry about Fleamont, darling,” she said as she led Charlotte into the heir wing. “I would never dream of trying to keep you apart.  In fact…”</p><p>Euphemia threw open a set of double doors emblazoned with a crest of some sort.  She turned to Charlotte with a grin, beckoning her into the bright, airy sitting room decorated in soft browns and golds.</p><p>“I thought you might share the Lady’s suite with me,” she said. “A second set of rooms appeared after you wrote to Fleamont, it’s far too large for one person now.”</p><p>Charlotte blinked around at the sitting room.  There was certainly space for both of them, with two writing tables and several sofas and chairs set around a large fireplace.  She hesitantly explored the short halls leading off the room with Euphemia’s encouragement.  Each led to a separate set of rooms, close enough to visit, but far enough for privacy even without magic.  Two bedrooms, baths, toilets, and dressing rooms, as well as what looked like personal libraries and small courtyards.</p><p>And, in one set of rooms, a massive turret with windows on all but one wall.  It glowed with light, perfect for the easel and canvases set up in the centre.</p><p>“Fleamont said you enjoy painting,” Euphemia said. “The castle almost never listens to me, but when I asked for a way to know which rooms were yours, this appeared.”</p><p>Charlotte trailed her fingers along the paints and brushes that were set along a table against the one wall of the room.  There was nothing she wanted more in that moment than to escape into the feel of sable and oil on canvas as she hadn’t since she’d left Linfred.</p><p>Instead, she forced herself to turn around.  Euphemia stood in the doorway, her hands once again clasped at her waist.</p><p>“Do you and Fleamont not share a room?” Charlotte asked.</p><p>Euphemia flushed just slightly. “We did,” she admitted, “but I hoped that you might find this more comfortable.  It’s a common arrangement when two witches court the same wizard.”</p><p>“I’m not a witch.”</p><p>Charlotte would learn later that Euphemia was not normally a flappable woman.  She blushed only rarely, seemingly as much for effect as anything, and was never the least bit hesitant.  However, in that moment she was both flushed and a bit stumbling before she managed to gather herself.</p><p>“You are not,” she said, leading Charlotte back into the sitting room and onto a sofa, “and in the magical world you would still only be Fleamont’s muggle girl.  However, I have never been to the village.  You are welcome to marry Fleamont there, be his wife amongst muggles as I am amongst wizards, and here at Linfred we could all be a family.”</p><p>Euphemia smiled slightly when she looked up from her hands.  At Charlotte’s gaping expression, no doubt, but her face held not a trace of the mockery Charlotte might have expected.  Instead she gave a helpless little shrug before reaching across  to clasp one of Charlotte’s hands.</p><p>“Do consider it,” she said. “I know it isn’t a perfect solution, but I promise you it truly is common in the magical world.  I have two fathers, they were best friends at Hogwarts and decided to ask my mother to court jointly rather than risk their friendship.  You can’t imagine how disappointed I was when Fleamont insisted I not meet you until after we were married.  I only have brothers, you see, and I had hoped we might be something like sisters.”</p><p>Charlotte wasn’t certain what she managed to mumble when she recovered enough to say anything at all, but it seemed to please Euphemia.  Not a perfect solution, indeed.  It was nothing close to perfect.  Watching Fleamont’s magical family while knowing there was nothing but censure for her in the village was about as far from perfect as she could imagine.</p><p>And there would be censure.  She had forgotten how separate from the real world Linfred was.  Separate enough that Euphemia believed there could ever be a respectable position for her after she’d fled only to come back with a daughter already half grown.  Marriage wouldn’t fix that.  Not anymore.  There would be whispers and glares and she couldn’t hope to be accepted amongst the village wives.</p><p>But it was the best she was likely to be able to do for herself.  She had known soon after moving to Linfred that she would never be a village wife.  Her governess had seen to that.  She was too educated, too poised, too far removed from the daughter of a grocer she had been.  What Fleamont had intended to do with her after he was married, she would never know.</p><p>Unless it was something like this.  Charlotte looked around the sitting room.  Spacious, full of light, and only one of the many rooms in the castle.  She could paint.  Watch Lucy grow up and into her magic.  Fleamont would see to it that she had anything she might want or need.</p><p>It wasn’t perfect.  But, with time, Charlotte thought it might be enough that she could learn to be happy.</p>
<hr/><p>Despite all of Euphemia’s assurances, it was still over a year before Charlotte allowed Fleamont to do more than buss her cheek.  Over a year of quiet looks and shivers every time their hands brushed.  Euphemia’s hesitant encouragement became more bold, before disappearing entirely after an evening spent with laughter and chocolate and far too much wine.  Charlotte supposed her fleeing the sitting room after being told to “push him onto a bed and ride him like a broom” had been a touch more dramatic than Mia had been expecting.</p><p>It had been what she had needed to hear, though Charlotte refused to admit it.  It seemed easier, somehow, to not take that final step into this new life.  If she didn’t have Fleamont, she could still run.  Could still move into a house near Hogwarts or wherever else she liked and pretend she was simply another muggle mother of a witch.</p><p>She should have known that had never been an option.  Fleamont had always drawn her in, like a moth to a flame.  When she finally allowed him in, turning her head at just the right moment when he kissed her cheek for the night, she was reminded of just how brightly a Potter flame could burn.</p><p>That the kiss turned into a tumble that turned into a night spent without a wink of sleep was not surprising.  Not to Charlotte, who could still remember the exact same thing happening on Fleamont’s birthday so many years ago.</p><p>The ring he summoned from his robes, however, was.  Charlotte stared at it, the sheets clutched to her chest as she tried not to get her hopes up.</p><p>“This was my grandmother’s,” Fleamont said.  He reached for her hand, slipping the ring just onto the tip of her finger. “She gave it to my mother when I was born, as a thanks for naming me after her family.  My mother left it to Euphemia, who agreed that it properly belongs to you as the mother of my first child.  I had plans to send it to you when you wrote and now…”</p><p>Fleamont pressed a kiss to her fingers before looking up and cupping her face in his hand. “I hope you will accept it as an engagement ring.”</p><p>It wasn’t a Potter ring.  Charlotte knew that from the lessons Lucy did her best to explain to her.  The central stone was a sunny yellow surrounded by diamonds and set into a plain band, nothing like ruby rings Potters gave to their consorts.</p><p>But Charlotte would never be a Potter consort.  Euphemia already held that place.  The best Charlotte could hope for was something like Lucy had shown her in the books she’d been given to study.  A second, muggle wife who would be as much Euphemia’s equal as she could without magic of her own.</p><p>She met Fleamont’s eyes long enough to nod, just once.  It wasn’t what she’d wanted as a girl.  She’d have had Fleamont all to herself then, the two of them living in a cottage in the village with Lucy and at least a few younger children.  At thirteen—or even at twenty—Charlotte hadn’t understood the realities of Fleamont’s position.</p><p>Now, thirty and with a daughter fast approaching thirteen herself, Charlotte knew.  Her girlhood dreams had never been a possibility.  She lay back as Fleamont kissed her, pulling him down atop her so that their hips slotted together once more.  Mrs Fleamont Potter had been what she had doodled in her exercise books as a girl and Mrs Fleamont Potter she would soon be.</p>
<hr/><p>It was only later that Charlotte realised neither of them had considered the likely consequences of their reunion.  She stared down at the date on the letter from Lucy, wondering if perhaps she had simply miscounted the days.</p><p>She hadn’t, of course.  She knew the moment the smell of her morning tea had her choking down bile as she hadn’t since the first weeks with Lucy.  Charlotte had been careful to ensure she was never in that kind of predicament again after leaving Linfred.</p><p>At least, she had until now.  She hesitantly knocked on the door to Fleamont’s study, hoping he was at least in as good a mood as he usually was since she’d accepted his proposal.  Running away again had long since stopped being an option.</p><p>Fleamont stared at her when she told him.  Long enough that she found herself babbling.</p><p>“I know it’s a surprise,” she said, doing her best not to cringe at the reminder that witches almost never had <em>surprises</em>, “and the timing isn’t ideal with the wedding not until summer, but I had hoped it would be a <em>pleasant</em> surprise.”</p><p>“Pleasant?”  Fleamont stared at her a moment more before pulling her up from her seat and drawing her into his arms.  This close, she could see the hint of shimmer at the edges of his eyes. “Darling, I will be overjoyed with every child you give me.  I only—”</p><p>A single tear escaped the corner of his eye.  Fleamont turned to press his lips to her palm when she reached up to wipe it away.</p><p>“Come with me,” he said.  His voice caught just slightly. “It will be easier to show you.”</p><p>What he wanted her to see became apparent as they approached the far corner of the estate.  There was only one thing Charlotte knew of on this edge of the property.  Her hand fell to her stomach when the carefully tended mausoleum and rows of Potters long passed came into view.</p><p>Fleamont took her past the oldest stones, to a small hill guarded by a statue of a dragon on its nest.  There were three stones and two additional dates etched into the eggs the dragon sat upon.</p><p>“Are all of these…”</p><p>Fleamont nodded. “Two girls, a boy, and two that were too early to be certain.  The boy was shortly before we received your letter.  Euphemia—”</p><p>Charlotte pressed herself against his side, running her hand along his back until he’d gathered himself.  This was a possibility that had never occurred to her.  If it had, she mightn’t have run away so easily.</p><p>“She was nearly there,” Fleamont whispered. “Too far along for the Healer to remove him with magic, but too far gone for her magic to recognise the need for a birth.  The only choice was to have him the muggle way.  None of the Healers will say if she will recover enough to take her counter-potion again.”</p><p>“I will tell her,” Charlotte said.  She pressed her fingers to Fleamont’s lips when he turned to her.  Potter instincts were written all over his face, but there were some things a person couldn’t be protected from.  </p>
<hr/><p>Mia insisted she was thrilled.  Of course she did.  Brave, proud, stubborn woman that she was, Charlotte had never expected anything different.  And when Anne Elspeth Corisande was born on 14 June 1929, Charlotte almost immediately transferred her to Euphemia’s arms.</p><p>“Say hello to your Mummy Effie,” she said, watching as Euphemia tried to mask a sniffle.</p><p>“Effie?”</p><p>“I didn’t think you’d want to be called Mama Mia.”</p><p>“No, I would not,” Euphemia laughed.  She sobered quickly, sitting next to Charlotte on the bed and clasping her hand. “Are you certain?  I never imagined—I am quite happy being Auntie Mia.”</p><p>She was, Charlotte knew.  Lucy was on the verge of being spoilt by how much Euphemia doted on her.  Where Fleamont had turned out to have a stern side when it came to Lucy’s marks and behaviour at school and Charlotte was long accustomed to needing a firm hand to have a hope of managing the Potter temper, Euphemia had managed to make Lucy see her lessons as a treat for being terribly grown up.</p><p>Anne, however, was not Lucy.  She would be raised entirely at Linfred, with Euphemia overseeing her education as a proper young witch from the start.  Maybe, if Charlotte had ever been given such an education herself, she might feel differently.  As it was, Anne could only gain from Mia considering her one of her own.</p><p>“If it’s not too much,” Charlotte said, squeezing Mia’s hand. “I would never—”</p><p>“It’s perfect.”</p><p>Charlotte suddenly became aware of Fleamont sitting very still on her other side.  She peeked at him to find him watching them with something akin to awe in his eyes.  Only when Anne began to fuss did he move, busying himself with arranging the pillows around her while Mia placed Anne in her arms and helped push down the covers so she could nurse.</p><p>It wasn’t perfect.  Wasn’t at all the family she had imagined for herself.  But, as Anne drank her fill while Euphemia and Fleamont took turns stroking her head full of Potter hair, Charlotte thought it might be good enough.</p>
<hr/><p>The faint thought of ‘good enough’ was only part of why Charlotte gently pushed Fleamont out of her room not quite a year later.  The real reason—that Mia had had an owl from her Healer—wasn’t something she could say.  Instead, she made up a story about being a bit tired from chasing after Anne and hoped Fleamont would forget that Mia had taken her to play with the Selwyns.</p><p>She had expected that Mia’s news of being allowed to take her counter-potion would result in Fleamont spending his evenings attempting to ensure his heir was a pureblood.  Instead, she found that the only change was one of her own making.</p><p>“The charm,” she panted as Fleamont pressed against her not two days later, “don’t forget the charm.”</p><p>The flicker of confusion before his expression cleared of arousal didn’t stop Fleamont from doing as she’d asked.  Nor did it stop him from ensuring Charlotte needed quite a bit of time to recover before she could explain.</p><p>“Let the next one be Mia’s.  We can use the charm until then.”</p><p>Fleamont watched her for a moment, his eyes drifting over her face before he reached out to cup her cheek. “We have no guarantee—”</p><p>“I know,” Charlotte turned her head to kiss Fleamont’s palm, “but we don’t have to make it harder.”</p><p>And harder it would have been.  Charlotte held Fleamont as he sobbed after leaving Mia to sleep off the potions she’d been given.  Another boy.  Another muggle birth.  And another ringing silence from the Healer when asked if she might ever be allowed to try again.</p><p>It was the fourth in as many years, Euphemia once again refusing to take a potion unless forced.  There had been a pair of twin girls, two that were so early a muggle might have been caught by surprise, and now the boy.  Close enough that they’d prepared the nursery, even going so far as to introduce Anne to a new nanny elf as Hattie would soon be busy with young Lord Stinchcombe.</p><p>Charlotte padded into Mia’s room after Fleamont had worn himself out.  He preferred to wake alone after nights like these, and Mia never slept as deeply as the Healers thought.</p><p>Sure enough, Mia was staring at the place a bassinet had been only a few hours before.  Charlotte slipped into the bed beside her.  It had become a ritual by now.  A twisted, haunting ritual of waiting silently for whatever Mia might need.  Sometimes it was tea or a bath.  The first time had involved hours of watching Anne as she slept.  Once, she had simply asked for Fleamont and Charlotte had done her best to see to the estate until they had re-emerged nearly a month later.</p><p>She was not expecting Euphemia to turn almost immediately and ask her to stop using the charm.</p><p>“Please,” she rasped, her voice hoarse in a way Charlotte had never heard it, “I couldn’t bear it if the line ended because of me.”</p><p>“Is that why you refuse potions?”</p><p>Charlotte’s head whipped around to find Fleamont standing in the doorway, staring at Euphemia as though he’d never seen her before in his life.  His mouth firmed into a line as he strode into the room and scooped her up.</p><p>“Stubborn, impossible witch,” he muttered between kisses to her hair. “I can adopt a son, if it comes to that.  I could never replace you.”</p><p>Charlotte slipped off the bed as Euphemia burst into tears.  They were something of a family now, but this moment felt too crowded for three.  She carefully backed out of the room, taking a minute to check in on Anne before putting together a tray in the sitting room.  It was pointless, of course.  The elves could have anything they liked ready with a snap of their fingers, but it gave her hands something to do.</p><p>When she returned to Mia’s room, Fleamont was in a chair by her bedside, while Mia herself had recovered enough to look like a painting of a queen in mourning.  She was still pale, her face still tear-streaked and her hands still trembling slightly as she lifted a teacup, but it was far better than Charlotte had been expecting.</p><p>She found out why when Mia once again asked that she and Fleamont stop using the charm.</p><p>“I know you only started because of me,” she said, her chin jutting proudly into the air as Charlotte and Fleamont did their best to hide winces, “and I love you both dearly for it, but I think it is time we put an end to the charade.”</p><p>“Mia—”</p><p>Euphemia shook her head, cutting off Charlotte’s aborted attempt to reach for her. “I had planned to ask after—”  She took a visible breath before closing her eyes and blindly reaching for each of their hands. “I was always going to ask,” she said softly. “I know it must sound mad to you, but I was always going to ask.”</p><p>Charlotte moved from her chair to sit next to Mia on the bed. “I’m thirty-six, we might try and have nothing come of it.”</p><p>“I know.  And if that is what happens, then that is what I will accept.  But please, do try.  Unless you truly only want the two, at least try.”</p><p>A glance at Fleamont found him clearly trying to mask more than a hint of hope.  It came as little surprise to any of them when Joy and Faith were born the following December.</p>
<hr/><p>The twins were followed by Daphne three years later, then Helen two years after that.  Amelia and Adelaide were a true surprise, born when Charlotte was nearer to fifty than not.</p><p>“I think these will be the last,” she said, looking down at the mops of tousled brown hair that covered her daughters’ heads.  Aside from age and the growing fear that she might not live long enough to see her children grow up, Lucy had begun trying for a family of her own shortly before Helen was born and was having much the same difficulties Euphemia had.  Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to be another source of pain for her.</p><p>Euphemia hummed as she ran a finger along Adelaide’s cheek. “If that is what you want.  I spoke to my Healer the other day.  I was thinking of asking Fleamont to brew my counter-potion.”</p><p>She shrugged ever so slightly when Charlotte’s head shot up. “I am not a young witch, but I am not yet too old to consider it.  The Healer believes I have another fifteen years before I no longer need a potion.”</p><p>“Mia,” Charlotte reached out to clasp her hand, “are you certain?”</p><p>“No,” Euphemia laughed, “not at all.  But I would like to try.  Who knows?  Maybe this time will be easier.”</p><p>This time was not easier.  There were more small graves in the far corner of the estate.  Boys, girls, a pair of twins that shook Fleamont and Euphemia both so badly they had to be fed and washed by a team of elves.  Even the children—now all grown except Helen and the younger twins—had gone pale when they’d heard of it.</p><p>It was then that Mia quietly told Charlotte that she didn’t think she would be taking her counter-potion again.  Charlotte felt herself breathe for what felt like the first time in a decade.  It had been different this time, Mia allowing herself time to grieve and recover without being forced.  There hadn’t been need for another muggle birth.  That hadn’t made it any less difficult for any of them.  Less frequent, perhaps, but not less difficult.</p><p>Charlotte looked out the window where they could see the girls flying about on their brooms.  They’d be off to Hogwarts soon, as all the children save Anne had been.  Fleamont had been less than pleased with her insistence on Beauxbatons after meeting a boy during a summer at the Potter chateau, but he never had been able to deny his children anything.  Anne had been top of her class despite Charlotte’s reservations about her and the boy marrying in her sixth year.  Joy and Faith had preferred quidditch to lessons, but were now happily pursuing Masteries in Arithmancy and Charms.  Daphne had been made Head Girl and Gryffindor quidditch captain, and Helen looked to be following in her path with a prefect badge of her own.</p><p>“Our family is enough,” Charlotte said, “isn’t it?”</p><p>Euphemia smiled as Adelaide cheered over catching the snitch. “It’s nothing like I imagined,” she admitted, “but yes.  I believe it is.”</p>
<hr/><p>James Hardwin Lancelot Avitus Potter, born 27 March 1960, was a shock to them all.  Euphemia had ignored every symptom and scan, insisting to Charlotte and Fleamont that she must be ill until James began to kick.  Then she had stared at her middle in silent wonder for nearly a full day.</p><p>She had never taken her counter-potion.  She swore it and both Charlotte and Fleamont believed her.  Even if she had, Fleamont had been amongst the first to try the new potion developed for wizards.</p><p>But, she admitted to Charlotte, there had been one night when she’d felt the castle’s magic more strongly than usual.  She hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, it happened on occasion if Fleamont was feeling particularly attentive.  Even Charlotte had noticed it once or twice.  It was still the best any of them could come up with for an explanation.</p><p>The months leading up to the birth were spent in a quiet sort of anticipation.  No one dared get their hopes up too high.  Even after James’ first breathless cry, they all spent weeks slipping into the nursery to ensure he was safe.  If there was a more doted on child in the world, Charlotte never wanted to meet them.</p>
<hr/><p>In the years that followed, Charlotte often found herself wondering why she stayed.  Not because she was unhappy—Linfred had turned out to be far happier than she could have imagined—but because she couldn’t quite place when she had stopped considering it a sort of second prize for not being a witch.</p><p>It had been a simple decision at first.  Lucy was her daughter and that meant she would stay to watch her grow up.  Then Anne had come and she had been another reason.  By the time Joy and Faith arrived, Charlotte knew she would be staying at least until Euphemia had recovered enough to not need a friend quite so near.</p><p>But Euphemia had James now.  The girls were grown, or close to.  There was no reason for Charlotte to still be waiting for another ball or party to end so that Fleamont might come see her.  No reason to continue accepting this odd life where she was Fleamont’s wife in the village, but invisible to all the people he considered friends.</p><p>Still, she stayed.  She laughed with Mia and took trips to London and Paris with Fleamont.  She moved into a new family wing with everyone else when James was a year old.  Watched as her newest grandbabies took their first steps alongside him.  There wasn’t any reason for it, really.  Only a sense that this was where she was meant to be.  Girlhood dream or not, she couldn’t bring herself to leave the family she had helped create.</p><p>Then James came of age.  Two muggle girls were brought into the castle, against every one of Charlotte’s instincts urging her to insist Fleamont give up this particular tradition.</p><p>Except that she was not the Duchess of Linfred.  James was not her son.  She had asked that he not be her son, in fact.  Had declared herself Aunt Lottie so that Mia might have one child all her own.  There was little for her to do but watch.</p><p>And watch she did.  As James destroyed his bedroom.  As he moved himself into the heir wing and applied himself to his studies far more than he ever had when the girl was taken from him for barely a week.  All that summer, she watched far more closely than even she might have expected.</p><p>When he came back from Hogwarts at Christmas, Charlotte knew.  So much like his father, but still so different.  <em>This</em> was why she had stayed.</p><p>She lingered outside the entry room when Mia returned to the library.  She wasn’t James’ mum.  Wasn’t the Duchess of Linfred.  She had no business interfering with traditions that had existed long before her.</p><p>She waited anyway.  Listened as James spoke to the little girl seated on his lap in a tone more gentle than Fleamont had ever used even with Euphemia.  That little girl would never know what it was like to accept second place.  She would never find herself wondering why she stayed at Linfred.  Charlotte would make sure of it.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>